


The Reflections Were Never Kind To Me

by mothim



Category: Sally Face (Video Games)
Genre: (since the face is kinda part of the body), Angst, Body Dysmorphia, Childhood Trauma, Crying, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Other, Self-Hatred, and then immediately rewrite the draft to make it in-character, boundaries being respected because fuck writing characters in toxic relationships, facial dysmorphia, in which i project onto sal fisher, says me as i plan 5 million angst fics. i am a hypocrite, trauma responses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29233605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothim/pseuds/mothim
Summary: The mirror was never Sal Fisher's friend. You're there to help him when he can't help himself.
Relationships: Sal Fisher/Reader, Sal Fisher/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	The Reflections Were Never Kind To Me

**Author's Note:**

> this is part 1 of "various xreader fics i wrote for my xreader tumblr writing blog in january that i deleted within three weeks that i'm now posting on ao3 bc i crave validation"
> 
> personally i headcanon that (based on medical procedures from the 80's/90's) sal's face wouldn't be as scarred as fanart portrays it to be, but idk idk some of that hc might have gone out the window when writing this. honestly i have no idea what i wrote for this, i just did it and left it and now im posting it here
> 
> hope yall enjoy this <3

The mirror was never Sal Fisher's friend.

He'd grown up, vaguely realizing that, indeed, that was _him_ in the mirror, _his_ reflection - then, quickly moved on from the wondrous realization after the hospital, after the surgeries, after the first reveal of his face, where he had stared in shock at the glass, then shook; then cried. 

He avoided mirrors much more after that. 

Over time, the scars faded, shiny bright reds calming down to pink, to blush, to faint white. The individual marks were less obvious, but Sal still saw his face in the mirror - scarred, damaged. He didn't exactly look normal - looked just a little bit past normal, to the point where he could still make kids cry if he lifted his mask for too long - but he knew that he didn't look too extreme, either. He still retained his basic face shape, even if his skin was particularly uneven in places. He also couldn't move the left side of his face that well, but that was more due to muscle and nerve damage than scarring. All in all, Sal knew that he should be thankful that his face turned out okay due to the surgeries, and the surgeries for past surgeries, yet there was still an unshakable part of him that cowered behind his mask, that detested his face with every fiber of his being. 

Yes, Sal's face could have ended up much worse than how it did. Yet, it was still the same face that had scared countless others away, and made kids _cry_ (Sal didn't think that he'd ever stop feeling bad about that). 

Getting romantically involved with you didn't bode well for him. He'd seen how touchy you were, how much you used physical contact to communicate with others. Hell, he'd been on the receiving end of that attention multiple times, and he'd found it nothing short of breath-taking, but all he could think of, involving the future, was dread. How were you supposed to kiss if he didn't take his mask off? That was one of the first steps couples took, and thanks to Sal's face, that was just another thing ruined. 

He sighed; dragged a hand down the smooth surface of his prosthetic. His pinky finger lingered on the crack on the left side for a second - taunting him. The day the mask broke was one of the worst of his life, really, marked by terror and shaking and the quick haze of _panicpanicpanic_ ; he felt so _horrible_ for it.

 _Plastic surgery's always an option_ , he thought, and then sniffed indignantly - his face was this monstrous after many, many operations. What made him think that anything would change with more money?

A gentle knock at the door sounded out, and Sal's breath hitched in surprise. Who would possibly be at his door at this time - this late (' _this early_ ,' a voice in his head insisted), where the dead of night began to give way to morning light? Why was someone here, calling his name softly? 

It was you on the other side of the door. But, still - _why were you here_?

"I know you're in there, Sal," you called, voice laced with tension and the desire to protect. "Are you okay?" It warmed his heart, as much as it froze his core. What if you were so passionate to defend him, to build him up and give him all that he asked for, only to let him fall that much further when you left? There was no reason for you to stay, if he couldn't show his face without hyperventilating - without having a borderline panic attack because of some scars that he never wanted and never _deserved_. 

A bite of anger rushed through his chest, and Sal gritted his teeth against the wave that threatened to overpower him. If he got onto the topic of what he _deserved_ , now, there was no doubt he wouldn't be able to hold any semblance of conversation with you.

"Sal, I'm going to come in, okay?"

Distantly, Sal wasn't sure which side of himself to give into. Should he act natural? Should he stand and pretend? He couldn't let himself be seen like this. It was too dangerous. Too vulnerable for someone who would leave him. He couldn't appear this way to you. Never. Not as long as he could hide it. He gave a sharp exhale, blinking back tears that threatened to humidify his prosthetic, before the door opened with the soft creak, and it didn't matter anyways. 

Too late, Sal realized how slumped his posture was, how tightly his hands gripped the fabric of his shirt. While he didn't have to worry about his expressions being seen by others, body language was a whole different story.

You stepped through the doorway, noticing the same tells that Sal had unintentionally emphasized in his own panic to hide them. 

Instantly, you could tell something was wrong. You had put more effort into interpreting Sal's body language than most - right now, all that you could read from him was overcompensation and _don't look at me! Don't look!_

Neither of you were anywhere near the range of idiocy required to ignore that there was some obvious turmoil displayed in Sal's behavior at the moment. You briefly pondered if you should approach the subject from a roundabout direction, but decided against it as Sal shifted tenderly - a bit unsure of where to put his weight; as if the act of existing was a bit too heavy for him to commit at the moment. 

"Sal," you breathed, concern flaring in your lungs and driving his name out. "What's wrong?" You shut the door, doubting that Sal would want anyone else to hear what was going on, even though you knew the house was empty besides the two of you. 

The room was silent, save for Sal's slightly labored breathing. Barely any light filtered through the curtains, and all it took was a sniff, a hiccup, and you quickly embraces Sal in a hug, cradled his head against your neck, and carded a hand through the hair that came down to his shoulders. 

" _I'm sorry,_ " he sobbed, and what else could you do but hold him closer? His hands grasped onto your shoulders, looped around your arms, and the cool plastic of his mask contrasted with the hot flush of his skin. He trembled violently in your arms, and all you could feel was cold fear. 

"You have nothing to apologize for," you insisted, brushing your lips against his ear and gently kissing the soft skin there; proceeding to imitate anything and everything you had seen in romance stories to soothe even the slightest of troubles running through your boyfriend's head. 

It was overwhelming for him, right now. "Everything will be okay," you said, with conviction. You hoped he would hear you, would register how much you truly meant the words. 

A strangled sound forced its' way out of Sal's throat, him blurting out, "even if you can't kiss me?" He almost rolled against you, a heave emerging from his stomach, and you quickly tried to soothe him, lest he begin having a panic attack. "Even if you never see my face for what monstrosity it is?" You felt moisture on your chest, and it registered to you that tears had made their way out of the bottom of his prosthetic. 

Your heart broke at his admission, and the tone it was spoken in - full of insecurity and brimming over with self-hatred, and you began to tear up in solidarity with Sal's sentiments. Was this what had brought this on? To think that something that you had never considered to be a big deal would have such a big impact on him... it was clear that you had missed something big. 

"I'll tell you this as many times as you need to believe, Sal," you whispered, "There is nothing about you that could ever be a monstrosity. You are perfect the way you are."

The hitches in Sal's breath were calming down, but he still shook and shook - and, you hoped that you had read the hint right. You pushed his bangs up and out of his face, pressing tender kisses to the skin at the base of his hair. A surprised gasp left Sal's lips, and you could feel his fingers tense against your shoulders. You closed your eyes, repeating the motion again and again - until you were most certain he was crying from another reason entirely. 

You wouldn't force him to take off his mask, nor were you going to take it off for him. The sight of his face would be reserved for when he felt comfortable enough to show you. For now, well - Sal had said nothing in opposition to the small sliver of skin that was exposed on his forehead, or the tips of his ears, or the pulse of his neck - all places that would be acceptable substitutes for kisses until Sal said otherwise. 

His breath was calmer, now, and he barely shifted anymore. He seemed utterly exhausted, and you could understand why - crying that hard for as long as he did was bound to be tiring, no matter the reason. And to know that all of this stemmed from thinly-veiled self-hatred was... well. You had clearly missed a key part of Sal's character. 

Sal began to pull away, and you let him go, looking through the eyeholes of the prosthetic to try and make eye contact with him. "Are you feeling a little better now?" You asked - _pleaded_ , you'd admit if you were desperate enough - and Sal wordlessly nodded his head. You breathed a sigh of relief, and leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to the forehead area of his mask. 

"When you feel comfortable, we'll kiss," you reassured, your fingers travelling down his arms to brush his wrists - to hold his hands in yours as tenderly as you could muster. You wondered if he could feel how delicately you held his hands; you wondered if the gesture itself conveyed a frightening amount of what you honestly felt for him. 

"You mean too much to me for me to be bothered by your prosthetic," you brushed a thumb over the back of his hand. "We'll take this at your pace. There's nothing that will bother me about you, Sal."

He couldn't meet your gaze. "And... my face?"

You pressed a gentle kiss to where his cheek would be. You could hear how his breath hitched under your touch. 

"You are nothing short of lovely, Sal."

He trembled. "Thank you," Sal whispered. 

The night moved on.

**Author's Note:**

> check me out on [tumblr](https://minescrafts.tumblr.com) im cool


End file.
